Alive Tonight
by Kazumi Muraki
Summary: Ed has a nightmare.  Roy tries to be comforting.  Oneshot.


Alive Tonight

Ed lay still against the pillows. It was a dreadful stillness, brought on by fear so great his body was frozen beyond his control. His eyes had shot open so hard it was painful, tinges of soreness settling in the backs of his eyeballs, but he had not moved.

Even now, the seconds that had become minutes did not allow him to relax. He lay still and perfectly silent, so silent that he could not hear his own breathing.

Neither could he hear Roy's.

It was that horrible quiet that broke him, causing him to fling off the bed sheets and whirl onto his side in search of his lover. His automail arm jolted out, patting the empty sheets. Had he not lost the blessing of touch with this metal, he would have felt the residual heat in the sheets. Had the dream not been so awful, so crushing, he would have taken a moment to gather himself and pursue the problem logically.

But it had been strenuous in a way that Ed had never been conditioned to handle and he didn't know how to react with the fear and the shock and the sorrow all battering his insides. All that he could do was emit a whimper that pierced through the silence as a keening cry, high-pitched and heart-broken.

"Edward?"

He could not see in the dark but he felt the voice reverberate into his bones, smoothing the chalky whiteness into a liquid night. And fear won out over logic once more, spinning a sophistic tale of an imagined voice. Ed grasped at the sheets, praying and pleading for the sound of his name once more, too scared to call out incase it really had been his imagination.

The bed dipped and even in the darkness, Ed could see a form shifting, edging closer. Then a hand touched his cheek, hesitant as it tried to sense proportions in the dark, then reassured of its choice, cupping.

"Edward, what's wrong?"

"_Roy_." He was so relieved, goddamnit, and the nightshirt he was fisting was real because he could sense the tension of the fabric in his metal hand and feel it burning the skin of his flesh hand. "Where…"

"I needed a drink—what the hell happened to you?"

"Nightmare."

"It had to have been pretty bad to get you this worked up." Prying the frantic hands from his shirt, Roy shifted so his knees were pressed on either side of the young alchemist, the pressure reminding Ed that this was reality. "What happened?"

Ed could see it, feel it, even taste the nightmare—it was fluid and bitter, like the scotch Roy sipped in the evening. The parallel did not comfort him. "You."

_ You_, as if this was the only explanation that needed to be given, the all-encompassing single syllable that brought life to his horror, gave it credibility it did not deserve. A lesser man would not have understood; a lesser man would have asked for more, which would have broken Ed.

Roy was not a lesser man. There was only one logical scenario that would cause this much anguish in a boy whose willpower exceeded the strength of his automail. Touching Ed's face again, Roy said, "You dreamed of my death."

He felt the tension in the young alchemist's jaw and let his thumbs stroke the hardened skin, coaxing fearful muscles into comfort once more. Roy found comfort in Ed's nightmare, although he would not admit it; it was reassuring to know that the notion of his death brought such sorrow upon Ed. It seemed cruel to think this, but his ego was appreciative of the affection Ed harbored.

"I couldn't breathe," was all Ed could say, and he rocked forward into Roy, pressing his tousled head into the firmness and existence that was the colonel's chest. "Don't ever die," he said.

Roy sighed, stroking the younger man's hair. "I will someday. I am almost twice your age, you know."

Ed's grip on his thigh _hurt_. "Goddamnit you bastard, have some tact." Ed's voice didn't sound quite as dangerous as he wanted, muffled against the cotton of Roy's shirt. His grip seemed to convey what his voice could not, however, and Roy grappled with the metal hand pinching his skin.

"You're going to bruise me."

"Good."

The nightmare was sinking away, rendered powerless in the face of Roy's existence, by the hot breath on Ed's shoulder and the frustrated tenor of Roy's voice. Ed relinquished his grip and Roy rubbed at his thigh.

Ed lay back and Roy slid himself under the covers, juxtaposing himself hip-to-hip with Ed. Closing his eyes, Roy attempted to lull himself into sleep but was hindered by the weight of metal on his chest.

"I worry, you know."

Ed had the sound of a nagging wife, and Roy would never admit how, despite his exhaustion, it amused him. His thigh still ached, reminding him that a show of patient tact would be necessary to avoid further retribution from the young alchemist.

"Give me some credit. I'm good at what I do."

"Yes." _Yes_, as in "of course" with no begrudging admission, but it was also _yes_ as in, "that doesn't make a difference to me." Capability meant nothing in the face of emotion.

"I don't plan on dying soon. I should be the one worried—you have the tendency to return from even the most straightforward mission with new scars." There was a hint of accusation in his tone, but Roy couldn't be bothered. It felt right.

"Then why aren't you?"

"What?"

"Worried."

"I never said I wasn't," grumbled Roy, rolling over to glower at his young lover. He dug an arm under Ed, hitching him up and against his chest, causing Ed to yelp and clutch at his arm. "Have some tact," he murmured against Ed's neck. He placed a kiss on Ed's collarbone, then relaxed.

Pressed against Roy's body, Ed allowed himself to relax as well, imagining his body melting into Roy's, becoming an ever-present part of the older man. A sudden grievance popped into mind, but Roy sensed this and cut it flat before it could be voiced.

"_Sleep_, Edward. I'm not going to die tonight."

_ Tonight_ was a small concession, thought Ed, but he allowed it to reassure him. Maybe tomorrow night he would make Roy say the same words, and the next, and the next after that, and the small concessions would make for a long allowance eventually, without the uncertainty of an extended promise but with the same comfort.

That would work, though Ed, feeling Roy drift away beside him. "Neither am I," he voiced, loud enough to draw a sleepy mumble from Roy, who managed the word "good" against Ed's skin. And Ed lay still and perfectly silent, so silent he could not hear his own breathing.

Beside him, Roy slept on.


End file.
